by Laura Dowers
Aemilia snatched the scroll from Galerius’s lap and briskly rolled it up. ‘I want to marry Vibinius and I will. I cannot worry about what may be. After all, who is to say the prophecy means a child of mine? Vibinius has a sister, it may mean her, or it may mean my granddaughter or great-granddaughter, and I will be dead by then. I will not sacrifice my happiness because of a few silly lines of Greek.’ Aemilia looked down her long nose at the old man. ‘You will not speak of this to anyone, Galerius, do you understand?’
‘But—’
‘To anyone. I will have you whipped if I so much as hear a whisper about this.’
Galerius folded his hands in his lap and nodded. ‘Not a word will escape my lips, domina.’
Aemilia turned and left him alone in the little room. Clutching the scroll to her breast, she hurried to her cubiculum and pulled out the chest she kept beneath her bed. Lifting the heavy lid, she pushed the contents to one side, placing the scroll at the bottom and replacing the other items on top.
Galerius had talked nonsense, she told herself as she shoved the chest back into its hiding place. What did he know of gods and prophecies? Perhaps the woman had not been the Sibyl at all, just a strange, mad creature who wore heavy cloaks in summer and had a liking for burning scrolls. To think that a prophecy written by a servant of the gods was intended for her was ridiculous, as ridiculous as she bringing forth a child who would be an enemy of Rome. After all, who was she? She was a nothing, a nobody.
Aemilia heard her mother calling for her and headed for the door. As she put her hand on the latch, she halted and cast a long look back at the chest beneath her bed. Would it be better to burn the scroll, she wondered, to finish the Sibyl’s job? She bit her lip. Part of her wanted to burn it, to destroy it physically in the hope she could rid it from her mind. But Galerius had been right about one thing: the Sibyl was the instrument of the gods. If the gods had meant her to have the scroll, to destroy it would be to risk their anger.
Her mother called again, and Aemilia shouted back that she was coming. She nodded to herself, decision made, and stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. The scroll would stay at the bottom of the chest, her guilty little secret.
2
Twelve Years Later
Caecilius Marcius clambered to his feet, smiling ruefully, pretending not to mind he was being laughed at. He had caught his foot in a rabbit hole and fallen flat on his face, and now he was a source of amusement for his new companions. His ankle was swelling, and his palms and knees were dirty with mud and grass stains. Perfect!
A hand thrust his fallen torch at him. He took it and looked into the grinning face of Prince Titus. ‘Thank you,’ Caecilius said, taking the torch.
’Hurt?’ Titus asked.
Caecilius shook his head. ‘Only my pride.’
‘Come on, then,’ and Titus waved the party forward.
Caecilius put his left foot down gingerly, feeling pain in his injured ankle. He grimaced. He would have to bear the pain. He would look a complete fool if he backed out now and returned to the camp.
Whose wonderful idea had it been to go on a raid? he wondered as he limped after the party. True, the diplomatic mission to Gabii had been extremely dull and their return journey to Rome uneventful, there being nothing to do for days now but drink and rut with the whores who followed them, but to mount a senseless raid on a nearby village! Why? Not that Caecilius had anything against a little action. He had never been on a raid, but where was the profit in it? To attack villagers who would have nothing worth stealing and no women worth humping was worse than pointless. It was stupid. There would almost certainly be consequences for both King Lucius and Rome, so why had Prince Titus agreed?
More to the point, he asked himself, why did you agree? He already knew the answer, though it gave him no pleasure to acknowledge it, and his wife’s words before they parted came back to him, telling him he was a fool and an embarrassment to be so obvious a social climber, wanting to get close to the prince. But there would be advantages to being in the prince’s inner circle of friends, he had told her with assurance. Who knew what could come of such a friendship?
Caecilius hurried to catch up. ‘Won’t they see us coming?’ he asked Cipius, gesturing at the flaming torches half of the party held.
Cipius, one of the prince’s closest friends, shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter if they do. They’re shepherds and farmers. Won’t know one end of a spear from the other.’
‘But we won’t have the element of surprise.’
Cipius laughed. ‘Trust me, Marcius, we’ve done this before. They’ll be too busy screaming and running away to be any danger to us.’
‘How many times?’
‘What?’
‘How many raids have you been on?’
‘I don’t know. Six or seven.’
‘With the prince?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Does the king know?’ Caecilius gave an embarrassed half smile as Cipius looked at him sideways. ‘Just wondering.’
‘You scared, Marcius?’
‘No, only—’
‘The king knows. Doesn’t care. He used to go on raids himself. So, there’s no need to worry your pretty head you’ll end up in trouble.’ He ruffled Caecilius’s hair roughly, laughing.
Caecilius jerked his head away, cursing himself for not holding his tongue. Now, Cipius would tell the prince what he had said, the prince would think him a coward and not worth bothering with, and that would be the end of any friendship, over before it had even begun. There was nothing else for it, he decided. He would have to prove himself worthy on this raid. He would show no mercy and laugh at his victims’ cries. In short, he would be the loudest, the fiercest, the most ruthless bastard of them all.
Salonia Aufidius clenched her jaw and grunted as another spasm of pain wrenched its way through her lower body. As the pain receded a little and she could breathe again, she clutched a small stone figurine of Lucina to her breast and begged the goddess for help.
Her friend, Atilia, heard her words. She grinned, showing the gaps in her teeth. ‘Hurts, doesn’t it? I told you it would.’
Salonia grunted and moved onto all fours, panting. ‘How much longer?’ she demanded, as she pressed her knees into the hardened earth floor of her hut.
‘Hard to say, this being your first. Another hour, perhaps. Now, don’t go on like that,’ Atilia said as Salonia started to whimper. ‘There’s nothing to be done. Babes comes when they’re ready.’
‘I didn’t know it would be like this. I should never have married.’
‘You’ll forget the pain and there will be more babes. There always are.’
‘Oh no, there won’t. I won’t let Gallio touch me ever again.’
Atilia didn’t bother to reply. Over the years, she had acted as midwife to many women and been witness to the pain, the curses and the prayers, and always there came the vow the woman would not lie with her man again, as if she had any choice in the matter. But Atilia also knew how this part of motherhood felt, knew the anger that welled up at being put through such agony, and knew she had said the same words herself as some kind of solace. She busied herself in the small hut, making sure she had all that was needed for when the child came: a bowl of water, cloths for cleaning and a knife for cutting the afterbirth. Yes, all was ready, just as it should be.
‘What’s that?’ Salonia asked, hearing shouts from outside the hut, but before Atilia could answer, the door burst open and Salonia’s husband rushed in.
‘We must leave,’ Gallio declared, pushing Atilia out of his way and moving to a chest by the wall. Wrenching the chest open, the lid banging against the mud wall, he rummaged inside and drew out his sword. He held it up to examine the blade, his heavy square face shadowy and strained in the light of the single oil lamp that burned. He looked down at Salonia crouched on the ground. ‘We must move her,’ he said to Atilia.
‘She can’t be moved, you fool,’ Atilia cried. ‘The baby�
�s coming.’
Gallio put his hand under Salonia’s armpit and tried to pull her up onto her feet.
‘Leave me alone,’ Salonia screamed and pulled out of his grasp.
But Gallio grabbed her again. ‘The Romans are attacking. The lookouts have seen their torches on the other hill.’ He heaved his wife to her feet, taking her weight as she fell against him. He bent as if to lift her into his arms, then thought better of it. ‘You’ll have to walk. If I carry you, I won’t be able to fight. Atilia,’ he called, turning towards the door where the old woman stood, peering out into the darkness, ‘help me get her to the trees. You can hide in the wood.’
Frightened, Atilia made no further argument but moved to Salonia’s other side and took hold. She and Gallio half lifted, half dragged Salonia out of the hut. They ran as fast as they could towards the trees. When they were only halfway across the field, they heard the shouts of the Roman raiders. Gallio and Atilia looked back over their shoulders to see the flames of the torches against the black night closing fast on their village.
‘Hurry,’ Atilia cried.
They reached the treeline and hurried into the wood, not stopping until they had gone in at least twenty feet. Gallio let go his hold of Salonia and she collapsed on the ground. Atilia bent over her, but her attention was on Gallio, who had taken a few steps back towards the edge of the wood.
‘You can’t leave us,’ Atilia said, careful to keep her voice low.
‘They’re burning the grain store,’ Gallio said.
‘We can replace the grain. She can’t replace you as easily.’
Salonia gave out a long, low snarl of pain and Gallio returned to kneel beside her. ‘You must be quiet, my love,’ he said in her ear. ‘If they hear you—’
‘I can’t… it’s coming,’ Salonia protested, her fingers digging into the ground as she tried not to scream.
‘Here, put this in her mouth.’ Atilia handed Gallio a short stick she had found on the ground. ‘Bite down on it, Salonia.’
Salonia did as she was told, closing her eyes as she panted. Gallio positioned himself behind a tree a few feet away, taking care to stay out of sight, watching as the straw roofs of the village huts went up in flames.
Trying to block out the terrible noises coming from the village, and trying not to think about her husband, whether he was dead or alive, Atilia tended to her friend, murmuring comforting words she had no faith in herself. Out here in the cool night air, the shock of the attack, the strain of their escape, Atilia thought it unlikely the baby would live. A large part of her hoped the child would die inside Salonia. A newborn babe would cry and alert the Romans to their presence here in the wood. And then the Romans would come with their dripping red swords and butcher them all. Gallio would do his best to defend them, Atilia knew, and maybe he would even kill one or two, but there were always more. Oh yes, there were always more Romans. Hear me, Lucina, she closed her eyes and prayed silently, let the babe die in Salonia’s womb. Or if that is not your wish, I beg you, let it not come yet.
But the goddess either wasn’t listening or didn’t care about Atilia’s fears. Salonia suddenly moved onto all fours and began pushing out her baby with all her strength, her teeth biting through the bark of the stick, her eyes squeezed shut and leaking tears.
Fighting back tears of her own, Atilia positioned herself behind Salonia. Salonia bent low, her face touching the ground, and growled into the earth as her baby slithered from her body into Atilia’s waiting hands. The afterbirth followed, plopping onto the ground with a squelch. The baby squirmed, opened its mouth and cried loudly.
The noise brought Gallio running. ‘Quiet it.’
‘Give me your sword,’ Atilia whispered and held out her hand.
Gallio hesitated, unsure of what Atilia meant to do, but when she snapped her fingers at him, he handed it over. With relief, he watched as she cut the umbilical cord.
He didn’t need to ask for his sword’s return. Atilia thrust the hilt towards him as soon as she was done. Then she stuck her finger in the child’s bawling mouth. The baby sucked on it and Atilia lifted it towards her chest to muffle any further sounds, careless of the blood and mucus that soiled her clothes.
Gallio returned to his lookout tree, returning a few minutes later. ‘They’re going,’ he said, staring at Salonia who had fallen over onto her back. Her legs were bent and spread. She was crying.
Atilia jerked her head towards the village. ‘Is anything left?’
‘I don’t know.’ Gallio knelt beside Salonia. ‘We’ll go back when you’ve recovered a little. I am so sorry you had to do this, my love.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Salonia said, wiping her cheeks. ‘Is the child well?’
Gallio looked to Atilia for the answer. She nodded. ‘Well enough.’
Salonia sniffed. ‘Why did they attack us?’
‘Because that’s what Romans do,’ Gallio snarled.
‘Is it safe to go back now?’ Atilia asked.
Gallio went to see. The flaming roofs illuminated the village and Gallio saw men moving about, some trying to put out the fires, others tending to bodies lying on the ground. ‘It’s safe. Come.’
They made a halting journey back to their village, Salonia whimpering with every step. Gallio and Atilia were both impatient to reach the village, but they forced themselves to walk at her pace. When they reached the first few huts at the edge of the village, Atilia thrust the baby into Salonia’s arms and hurried away to find her husband.
Gallio and Salonia went to their hut. Compared to their neighbours, they seemed to have been fortunate. Their roof was untouched, but the hut had been ransacked, their few pieces of furniture broken into pieces, smaller items scattered over the floor. Salonia looked around her invaded home, fresh hot tears falling freely. She held her child close against her body and bent her head to its cheek. It was warm against hers. ‘Our home, Gallio.’
‘At least we are alive, Salonia,’ Gallio said, taking her gently in his arms so as not to crush the child between them. ‘We can repair the village. But if those bastards had found you, they would have put a spear through your belly, and I wouldn’t have either of you.’
‘Oh, don’t,’ Salonia pleaded. She looked up sharply as wails rent the air. ‘Ye gods, that’s Atilia.’
‘Stay here,’ Gallio said and hurried out. Salonia pressed fierce kisses to her child’s head, her eyes fixed on the doorway. When Gallio returned, his face was grim. ‘Her husband’s dead.’
‘I should go to her.’
‘No,’ Gallio said firmly, ‘you’ve been through enough. I’ll see she’s looked after.’ And before she could argue, he was gone.
Salonia eased herself to the floor, wincing at the pain between her legs, and realised neither she nor Gallio knew whether they had a son or a daughter. She pulled aside the shawl Atilia had wrapped the child in. They had a son, she saw, as he started to cry. She pulled her dress away from her breast and guided her nipple to the little mouth. He started to suckle.
‘Tullus,’ she said aloud, trying the name to see how it sounded. ‘Tullus Aufidius. The gods favoured you and brought you safe to us.’ She closed her eyes and raised her face to the roof. ‘And now I call on Nemesis to make you strong so that when you are old enough to wield a sword and spear, you will destroy the Romans for all the Volsci people. Oh Nemesis, hear me.’
She opened her eyes to see a goose flapping noisily past the open hut door. Salonia grinned. The goddess had heard her.
3
517 BC
Aemilia scanned the kitchen table and performed a quick calculation. Nine dishes in all: bread and cheese, pork, asparagus, figs, grapes, plums, olive oil and honey… oh dear, would there be enough? She had only planned for one guest at their dinner. Now, Caecilius had sent one of his slaves to tell her he was bringing Menenius Agrippa with him, and Menenius Agrippa was known to be a big eater. Aemilia had ordered two more jugs of wine for the table, the best their farm could offer, just in
case.
She wished she could stop the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. They weren’t caused by the prospect of the dinner party; she had given plenty of those over the years. It was the prospect of the Sidonius family taking an irrevocable step towards a destiny of which she didn’t want to be a part.
It wasn’t the first time she had felt this way. The first time had been on her wedding day, when Vibinius’s intaglio ring had kept flashing in her eyes, and the memory of the Sibyl’s scroll in the chest beneath her bed had refused to stay buried. But no god had struck her down as the wedding ceremony progressed, and she had allowed herself to relax.
Then she had become pregnant, and the butterflies had returned. All throughout her first pregnancy, she had stroked her swollen belly and wondered if inside her was the child who was to bring calamity upon Rome. But then her baby was born, and in her contentment, the prophecy was dismissed. For her son was surely the least likeliest creature to be a danger to Rome. He was not perfect, for he had a harelip and a club foot, and time would prove him to be simple. Vibinius suggested exposing the child, but Aemilia had screamed at him and he had held out his hands, taken aback by her fury. Aemilia had named her son Kaeso and rejoiced in the knowledge that such a baby would never be beloved of Mars, or of any other god, for that matter.
Her second pregnancy had been a trial. The baby had drained her of all energy, and her labour was long and painful. When it was finally over, she was an exhausted lump, ripped and sagging, and never likely to bear another child. She was thankful. She didn’t want another. Unlike Kaeso, this child, a daughter, had been perfect: no disfigurement, and as time passed, no evidence of mental backwardness. And yet, somehow, Aemilia felt not a fraction of the love for her daughter that she felt for her son. Her daughter was a cold creature, undemonstrative, aloof, showing no particular affection for her parents and none whatsoever for her brother. The prophecy reared its head in her memory once again. If she was to be the mother of this fated child, then Aemilia thought there was no greater candidate than her daughter Volumnia.